


In Memory Of...

by princesskay



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 03:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3554417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock struggles with the emotions related to a great loss</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memory Of...

 

_You have taught, the Universe_

_Is unfolding as it should_

_Can you trust me in reverse?_

_Can you feel the major good?_

_Going boldly to explore_

_What we cannot yet forsee_

_Where no man has gone before_

_Have no fear and follow me,_

_Space is silent and serene_

_Final threshold we transcend_

_As I echo: I have been_

_And shall always be your friend._

_-Author Unknown_

 

I remember the moment clearly – that moment when I knew it would all end. I still clung to the fragile hope that he was not gone, that I had not lost him, but all the same, the facts were there. The damage was done, leaving him weak, dying, grasping for the final moments before eternity. For the first time, I clutched his hand in a moment of emotion. It was highly illogical, I knew, but the feelings remained. It was such a foreign feeling that I almost feared it. And yet, I feared the loss of this man, my equal in so many ways, even more.

He was the most perfect human I ever knew. The most perfectly flawed. He was the best thing I ever called mine. He was the constant in my life. He was my leader, my partner, my friend. . .I can not bear to call him more, for I know that the chance to say such things are now gone.

As the light was dimming in his eyes, he spoke his last words to his closest friends. He murmured some wavering, delirious, yet loyal words of dedication to the good doctor, words that I did not hear. They were drowned out by the sound of the blood pounding through my head. I recognized all the signs of grief, an emotion I should not have been able to feel, but could hardly combat. His fingers were slowly slipping from my hand, growing cold with the touch of insensate death. I clutched them, desperate to feel the warmth return, the strength come again to his grasp. Instead, I only managed to call his dying words mine. They echoed back through time, sharply reminding me of the time when I had been in his position. “You are my equal, and my friend,” He whispered raggedly, “I have been, and forever shall be. . .yours.”

The profound deepness of his statement struck the human emotions inside of me, like a bell, great and old, tolling for the last time with a resonance that would shock the generations to come. I could say nothing. I felt tears in my eyes. _Yours._ He had spoken the words back to me with greater conviction than I could have ever mustered. My incapability to express my feelings suddenly felt like a greater weight than the depressing sorrow of those very emotions. I wanted to respond, but those three words that I had spoken only in the silence of the darkest, densest night, when only my own ears could hear, would not breach my lips nor form deep in my constricted throat. It was beyond me to understand the emotions raging through my logical, Vulcan heart. I had never understood love beyond that of my mother. Even that, I had never been able to express. This, however, was something different. It was the kind of love that people die for, the kind that keeps those alive long after they should have passed. I wished and pleaded in my heart that such unfathomable love could keep his heart beating within his noble chest for only moments longer. Just a few more moments, so that I could articulate the words that wanted to flow from my lips.

Alas, it was not meant to be! He was taken away from my trembling, wanting hands. They were going to care for him, try to nurse his wounds, attempt his recovery. My analytical mind knew otherwise. He was not coming back. He was not returning to our lives. He was leaving a gap, a gap that could not be filled by another man, woman, emotion, desire or possession. Those things had meant nothing to me all throughout my long life. And now, a single Homo sapien, with a heart as wide as the ocean, a courage stronger than a lion's, had captured me in this frenzied, confused place that is emotion. I felt as if I would burst apart from within, as if a fuse had been lit within me. I did not want to contain the feelings, and yet I had to. I struggled, screaming inside, to be free of the bothersome emotions. I did not want to live with them, if I could not live without him.

As the day drew to a close, I realized that I would be living with the emotions for the rest of my life. He had been by my side for decades, longer than some men and women remain bonded. In human logic, I would be unable to fill that void for some years to come. In Vulcan logic, I would have to move on. If I did not, all of my discipline and training would have been for naught. I would be as any ordinary human, fraught with emotion, tossed by the harsh waves of loss, reduced to nothing more than flesh, making use of space that some more motivated, productive person could be utilizing. In my culture, when a man or woman's usefulness comes to an end, they are no longer considered important. I did not want to become that Vulcan.

Even as this realization came to me, I still could not cope with the immense feelings that wreaked havoc in my soul. Memories assulted me like a hail storm, pounding upon the open wounds of my heart and mind. Humans smile so easily, and for no apparent reason, and yet, I could not help remembering his. Had I enjoyed it? Had I taken pleasure in hearing his laugh, watching the dimples form on his cheeks, taking part in the jokes he seemed to have so many of? I could remember suppressing the desire to join in his laughter, but I could not know if I had lingered so long by his chair to hear his amusement once more. Technically, I should not have known the emotion of denial, but it would be illogical to deny that I had been in denial. The raw truth was that I had found him deeply fascinating and. . . .pleasurable, in the end.

I sat in the chair in my quarters at Starfleet Command and watched the Earth's sun sink. I awaited news of his condition, though I already knew what the answer would be.

In the Vulcan race, it is a fact that our minds are often linked in some subconscious way. When one dies, many feel it. It is practically a law that says only Vulcans can feel this. I now beg to differ. When I was left standing there on the dusty ground, looking at the destruction about me, feeling the wind blow coldly against my cheeks, I endured a feeling of pain and loss in one second of time. The doctor had taken him away twenty point seven minutes ago. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my skull, and a voice crying out. He was in agony, and then a moment later, his words rang through me. His last words were ones of awe and perhaps joy. He said simply, “Oh. . .my. . .” as if he had seen something that living mortals never do until they reach death's threshold. I felt that he saw something beautiful, unimaginable, something that made everything worth it.

To say I was happy for him would be miscalculation on your part. I was not happy. I was relieved. It was only befitting of a man of his rank and integrity to pass from this life into such peace. His life was full of turmoil; perhaps his eternity is full of rest.

Though I knew I had lost him, I sat in my room at Starfleet Command and waited for confirmation. I decided that I would accept it gracefully, with little emotion and much acceptance. There was nothing that could be done for him. I would not hang my head or cry or do any such thing. The doctor would, but I refused to. There was no Genesis Device to resurrect him as it had done to me. If my calculations were correct, there was no conceivable way to bring him back from death. His wounds were far too great, and his desire for peace even greater. He had gone to his just reward, and I found it perfectly logical that he should.

As the memories bombarded me, my mind involuntarily summoned the life and death situations we had experienced together. They were many, abounding in number and illogical in disproportionate ways. We had saved the world from destruction on many an occasion. We had halted intergalactic murderers, madmen, and military. We had discovered a plethora of races, stopped wars, discovered peace for nations, and in the process halted a few out of control machines which had gone beyond their capabilities. They were accomplishments to be proud of, but none were so great as the sacrifice he had finally put forth with his noblest, most courageous effort.

We had once had a conversation that my understanding later became hinged upon. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one. I had once taken that oath, and had the unexpected chance to live again. He had now taken it, but there was no coming back. It was a true, logical statement, but it had taken my friend. He had died for the universe, a very commendable choice. I felt selfish for wishing he were back with me again. The illogical characteristics of the situation plunged me deeper in a sort of depression that left me staring motionless into the sinking, orange glow of the sun.

I closed my eyes and brought my fingertips to my forehead and cheek. I concentrated all of my efforts into packaging my thoughts into a little box of anonymity. I shrank within myself, confining my being to the last corner of my soul not ravaged by the loss. My body slumped in the chair, immobile in a deep, restful slumber that Vulcans had long ago learned to control.

When I awoke, the room was dark. My head was cleared, and the sorrow had lessened. I would survive the night.

The computer screen across the room blinked, alerting me that I had received a message. I rose slowly, stretching out the stiffness from my limbs. I squinted as the sharp glow of the computer monitor glared me in my dreary eyes.

I reached out a trembling, aged hand to the touchpad and clicked on the message. It was from the doctor. I drew in a shaking breath and opened it. The words written there hit me all over again with the same emotions I had so recently manged to regain control of.

“No. . .” The word managed to escape softly from my lips.

I sank to the chair and closed my eyes. This time, the tears rose hot, unforgiving of my logical ideals, and overwhelmed my eyes. I fought for control, sucking in a deep breath.

_ I am in control of my emotions.  _

The thought raced through my head, a mantra I had carried through life. Today, its effect was hardly calming. My thoughts were scattered, my mind not as sharply focused as normal. One thought rose above the others.

_ Doesn't he deserve more than that?  _

I knew the good doctor was only trying to make it through this hard time, but I wondered what I could do about giving my friend more than a few words without sounding irrational and highly illogical. The answer was nothing. Vulcans do not feel, meaning they do not feel pain, resulting in the fact that they do not grieve. I could do nothing for him except accept his passing away in silence. A tortured, frozen silence that I would soon find would enslave me for the rest of my life. I would have to leave the doctor's words as they were.

I rose from the chair to retire to my bed, though I knew I wouldn't sleep. Before I left the computer, I discarded the message, forever erasing Dr. Leonard McCoy's stiffly informative, yet sharply emotional message that had simply read:  _ Jim is dead.  _

 

the end

 


End file.
